


And the Cord of Communion

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Kinship [2]
Category: Leverage, The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Brothers, Family Issues, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:57:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Jacob and Eliot have a not-so-quiet talk in the brewpub afterhours. Twenty years is a long time to be apart, and there's a lot to discuss between the brothers. Family ain't easy. Ain't that the truth?





	And the Cord of Communion

Eliot heard the door whisper open behind him and bit back a sigh of irritation.  _Dammit, Hardison. All you had to do was lock the front door._ "We're closed," he called without turning around, though he kept one eye on the shiny chrome surfaces where he could see the blurry reflection of the incomer.

"It's alright, I know the owners," a familiar voice answers.

His grip tightened reflexively on the dishrag, and he set down the glass he'd moved perhaps a little harder than necessary. "Jake. What're you doing here? Thought you said you weren't going to see me again," he said, forcing the words to come out evenly. He'd had years upon years of practice, hiding what he felt from other people because even being suspected of going soft was a good way to end up dead.

"To be honest, I wasn't going to," Jacob replied bluntly, and a floorboard creaked, which meant he was eight steps away from the bar.

"Then why did you?" Eliot asked, glancing beneath the counter to make sure everything was stocked.

"Cassandra hit me."

 _That_ surprised him enough that he turned around, the rag still in one hand. Jacob stood there between two barstools with hands shoved in his pockets, looking so much like a sulky fifteen-year-old boy just been told off that it ached a little, and sure enough, he was sporting a nice, natty black eye. As shiners went, it wasn't too bad, he could still see out of it, but it had to hurt regardless. Eliot tried to keep the mirth out of his voice as he leant forward over the bar and had marginal success in that area. "Well, I'll be damned, that does indeed look like the work of a pretty little hand. Take it that ain't normal?" he asked.

"Jones about shit himself," Jacob muttered, reaching up to touch the discoloured skin under his eye and wincing. "I thought Jenkins was gonna cry, the old man looked so damned proud of her. Baird didn't say anything, I think she was too surprised."

Eliot bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn't laugh. "So what'd you do?"

"What d'you mean, what'd I do? She's, like, four feet tall and weighs as much as a leaf dripping wet, what am I  _gonna_ do?" Jacob snapped back defensively, folding both arms across his chest.

"I meant, what'd you do to make her hit you?" he clarified, though he had a niggling feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Why d'you assume it's  _my_ fault?" Jacob muttered; Eliot didn't grace that with a reply, merely gazed at him until his brother shifted his weight uncomfortably, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Everyone was askin' about you, an' I told 'em that I was done with you," he replied at last. "And Cassie completely flew off the handle. Man, I ain't never seen her so angry before. Cold-cocked me one right in the eye and told me to get my ass down here and talk to you. Well, I'm here, an' I'm talking."

"What do you want from me, a gold star?" Eliot asked, unable to keep all the bite out of his tone.

"An explanation, for starters!"

"I'm a grown-ass man, Jake, I don't gotta explain myself to anybody." Anger began to curl its way into his chest, and Eliot relished it's presence. Anger he could deal with. He and anger were old friends. It was a whole lot easier to handle than pain, especially that specific brand of pain that only came with family.

"A reason, then. Gimme one good reason why you just up and left for twenty goddamned years," Jacob snarled back.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "You knew I was enlisting, it wasn't exactly a surprise."

"No, no, of course not. No, you're right, Eliot. The surprise was that after you left, you  _never came back._ Not a single call, no e-mail, not even a fucking postcard. For all we knew, you were dead in some godforsaken desert on the other side of the goddamn planet, pardon the hell out of me for being just a little bit pissed about that."

Eliot stared across the counter at Jacob and noticed for the first time how different they really looked. Not just the hair or the earring, either. He was the older twin by three minutes (and he never let Jacob forget it, either) but this was the first time his brother actually looked younger than him. There were fewer lines around his eyes, more openness to his expression, and remembered what he'd told Nate once, about how killing wasn't just a one-way street.  _I ain't seen that kid in ten years or more. And trust me, I go lookin'._ That was what Jacob looked like to him, like himself all those years ago, before he'd started really getting his hands dirty. That hot fizzle of fury that'd started up under his ribs simmered down, and he let out a slow breath at its departure.

"I have more than one reason, Jay-Jay," he sighed, and Jacob recoiled like he'd been slapped at the use of his childhood nickname. "I got a hundred, hell, a thousand different reasons why I didn't come home. Maybe they're just excuses, I dunno, but don't stand there and act like I made that choice easily. You think I never wanted to come home? Hm? Think I never missed you? Or Mama, or the girls? Do you think that all of that was  _easy?"_ he demanded and felt a little stab of vindictive pleasure when he saw the guilt flicker across Jacob's face. "Exactly. So don't you stand there and question my choices, because you don't know the damn first thing about my reasons. Or the options I had to pick from. And while we're on the subject of reasoning, little brother, why don't you tell me about some of  _yours,_ Dr. Oliver Thompson? Or is it somebody else now, I don't remember."

Jacob flinched again. "That's different," he said, but his voice had lost some of its fire.

"Oh, is it? I left, fine, but you lied to everybody's face for years. Nobody knew about, but who's to say that anybody even knew  _you?"_ Eliot replied sharply.

For a moment, they were both quiet, the silence heavy and thick enough to cut with a dull knife. Eliot counted his breaths in tandem with his heartbeat, determined not to be the first one to speak and wondering if his brother was about to walk away from him again. Finally, after what felt like a separate eternity all on its own, Jacob looked up at him again, meeting his eye. "You know what names I publish under?" he asked at last.

A breath he hadn't realised he'd held rushed out. "Yeah. Of course I do."

"Hardison?" Jacob ventured.

"You'd be surprised at what he can find out about someone." That wasn't exactly true. He'd been keeping tabs on his family for years before he met Hardison or any of the crew, always from a distance, making sure they were safe. But there was no reason for anybody but him to know that.

The corner of Jacob's mouth curved up just the slightest bit, and some of the cold-iron tension that'd coiled up tight in Eliot's chest loosened off. "Can I get a drink?" he asked softly.

Eliot fished in his pocket and tossed him a set of keys. "Go lock the front door first. We're closed." He reached beneath the counter and took out two glasses, pouring them both two fingers of the good whiskey (don't tell Nate) as Jacob locked the door and shuffled back to the bar, sitting down on one of the tall stools. "So...tell me again how you got beat up by a girl," Eliot said, sliding one glass over.

"Shut up, Eli."

"Make me."


End file.
